


Crucifixion

by kikicecchetti



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, FBI agent!Castiel, detective!dean, satanic rituals, serial killer task force
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikicecchetti/pseuds/kikicecchetti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-Supernatural AU: When a series of gruesome crucifixions leave more questions than answers, Detective Dean Winchester realises he is dealing with a sadistic serial killer painting satanic tableaus. When Dean receives a letter from the female killer, showing the keen interest she's taken in the ambitious detective, Special Agent Castiel Novak is called in as the FBI liaison for the task force. (WiP: ~5-7 Chapters Planned)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Nothing could have prepared Officer Adam Milligan for what he discovered in the back of that abandoned warehouse. The call to dispatch had been routine; suspected trespassing by local teenagers who were constantly being dared to enter the warehouse in the middle of the night._

_It was bitterly cold, and Adam pulled his thick jacket close around him and turned up his collar against the gusting wind. Leaving the headlights of his patrol car on, he approached the door and noticed the broken lock on the ground, the small door sat a few inches ajar. In his hand, Adam grasped his billy club and used it to push the door open slowly._

_The frigid metal creaked and groaned in protest to the movement. The warehouse was pitch-black, all except for a small ray of light emitting from the door to the office at the other side of the massive, empty room. "Police!" Adam called authoritatively. "I'm going to need you all to exit the building."_

_The front door slammed behind his back and he involuntarily jumped, especially when he heard no response from the brightly lit office; the light wasn't normal though, he remarked as he tried to quickly cross the thick black darkness of the warehouse. The warm, yellow light seemed to flicker and move, casting shadows across the blinds that covered the window into the office._

_On second thought, Adam was quite certain that this warehouse hadn't had electricity in years. "Hello?" He called out again, only a few feet from the office door now, his fingers twitching as his hand hovered a few inches above his gun in its holster; he felt his adrenaline levels begin to increase and a cool burst of fear coursed through his veins as only silence greeted his ears._

_Undoing the snap that kept his gun in its holster, Adam gripped the butt with his right hand. "I'm going to need anyone inside to make yourself known!" He warned, fingers opening and closing around the cold steel of his handgun._

_Silence once again._

_Adam kicked the door open and it banged into the wall with a resounding crash as the young patrolman moved to begin checking all the corners of the space. But the moment his eyes adjust to the room lit by countless candles, he is glued in his spot._

_The room was not empty. In the flickering light of those blood red candles, dripping wax onto the stone floor, the walls were covered with strange symbols and writing. On a table in the middle of the office was what looked to be some sort of black altar, the silver chalice was filled with a liquid that looked far too similar to blood._

_But the piece de résistance was the rugged, wood-hewn cross standing against the far wall, a towering structure of black wood painted with those strange symbols in the crimson red of blood. In three places, the mutilated body of a middle-aged, blond man was nailed to the frame, and above his blood-stained hair was a piece of parchment with writing on it, though he couldn't make out what it said from this distance, and there was no way he was moving any closer any time soon._

_With shaking hands, Adam fumbled for the radio clipped to his belt. "Dispatch, this is Officer Milligan," when his voice wavered, he cleared his throat. "I have a 10-45, presumed dead, at the abandoned warehouse on Wiltshire."_

_"Copy that, Milligan," Dispatch responded just as the main door to the warehouse slammed shut once more._

_"Requesting back-up," Adam informed the woman on the other end as he turned and pointed his gun towards the open door to the office, a chill running down his spine as he turned his back on the man hanging from the cross. "Send everyone you've got..."_

_"10-4," The voice of the female dispatcher rang through the room. "What do we have, Milligan?" She asked, wanting to know something to tell the back-up she was sending, there was a clatter that sounded like the radio being dropped on the ground. "Milligan?" She called the officer's name when she received no response. "Milligan, do you copy?" The line crackled with silence._

_"All units to 117 Wiltshire Blvd. I repeat, all units to 117 Wiltshire Blvd. 11-99, Officer not responding after report of 10-45 presumed dead."_

_When the first officers arrived on scene, there was no sign that Adam had ever been there. His patrol car was not even parked outside, and the door to the office inside the warehouse had been chained closed with a lock. An officer took an ax to the lock and they gained entry to the office._

_"Call Winchester," was the first thing anyone dared say when they caught site of the gruesome tableau. Above which, on the wall, was painted "Book of Satan 2:6"._

* * *

The young officers fall silent as one of them catches sight of Detective Dean Winchester arriving at the scene. He raises the yellow crime scene tape and ducks his head underneath as he strides towards the warehouse door with a steely, unreadable expression on his face, and no one dares impede his progress.

The ranking officer on scene notices Dean's entrance from where she stands, conversing with one of the forensics guys; excusing herself, she walks towards the detective. "The M.E.'s here," She says, trying to get Dean's attention, which is currently focused on the open door to the warehouse. He turns his eyes towards her approach. "I told him to hold off on the examination of the body until you had a chance to look it over," she adds when she is finally next to him.

As per usual, Dean looks her up and down in her uniform, and a hint of a smirk appears on his lips. "Well hello, Officer Harvelle," He quips with a raise of his eyebrows. The man knows everything there is to know about the Crucifix Murders, and yet he can't keep his eyes from straying to Jo's ass. "How much does the M.E. hate me?" He asks with a grin, totally in his element.

Jo raises her eyebrows in disapproval. "You're making him wait, and I'm pretty sure he was in the middle of dinner, so, probably a lot." She follows as Dean resumes walking towards the warehouse.

"Who called it in?" He asks, the milling officers part like the Red Sea for Dean.

"Milligan." Jo's voice is hard when she gives him the news. Dean struggles to keep his face unaffected as he hears the news. "They haven't heard anything from him since," The two of them are now in the warehouse, and with the door to the office completely open, they can see a small taste of what lies inside, still flickering with the light from the burning red candles.

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck prickle slightly and he begins to feel the adrenaline course wildly through his veins as he looks to see what messages she's left for him this time; he follows as Jo escorts him into the small square office at the back of the warehouse.

When they enter, the officers are still trying to rig up the flood lights, so Dean experiences what Adam must have seen when he discovered the scene.

This is how it was supposed to be seen.

The cross on the back wall is just like the others; all of them almost perfect replicas, pitch black like the night, but not from paint. The only paint-like substance on that cross is the vic's blood, creating a complex interwork of demonic symbols on the two rough pieces of African Blackwood timber.

Jo falls silent as Dean approaches the crucifixion scene, studying it intently.

The man looks to be in his mid-thirties with sandy blonde hair. That is about all Dean feels he can make out about the victim. His face is littered with contusions, both eyes swollen shut and several teeth missing. But the hardest part to miss was the large incision cutting his belly completely open, his intestines spilling from his abdomen.

Each of the victims' cause of death had not been their crucifixion. The first had been blunt force trauma to the head, and the second had finally been stabbed in the chest a total of 66 times. Dean estimates that she typically tortures them for about three hours after nailing them to the cross, before delivering her lethal blow.

"Could you get the M.E.?" Dean asks Jo as moves his gaze from the cross to the stone wall next to it.

From the door, Jo calls the medical examiner over nods towards the body. "He's all yours," She says to his scowl.

Dean is examining the symbols on the walls, "Can someone get me a black-light?" He shouts towards the officers standing idly around the room. One of them starts and exits the room quickly, calling for a black-light to everyone outside.

"These the same symbols?" Jo asks, standing behind Dean as she squints at the demonic symbols on the wall. Nodding as he takes a few steps back, Dean scrubs his hand down his face as he takes a photo with his phone.

"Looks like it to me," He types a number into his phone and sends the photo off in a text. "But the order might be different, I'm sending it to Bobby," his father's old friend had taken to consulting with the police department whenever they had cases that had any sort of symbols. Jo nods in agreement; she likes Dean when he's like this, in his element.

The senior forensics tech, Ash, approaches the two of them as Dean is looking at a list of those symbols on his phone, in his hand is a black-light attached to a long, orange extension cord. "You rang?" He says to Dean, a new-found ally on the force. His analyses of the forensic evidence of the two previous crime scenes had truly endeared him to Dean, but he could still be an annoying little shit.

Dean snatches the black light from his hand and flicks it on without a word. Is it wrong that there is a large part of him that was almost hoping for a new crime scene so he could test his theory.

Under the black-light, the wall erupts into a bright, complex array of symbols. Dean lets out a low whistle when his suspicions are confirmed. When he was studying some of the previous crime scene photos he'd noticed a small amount of stray smeared blood around one of the painted symbols. He knows enough about forensics to know that wiped away blood shows up under a black-light.

"These were drawn in blood and wiped away," He remarks to no one in particular, but Ash is gaping, wide-eyed next to him.

"It's like she fucking knows, man." He says with an incredulous voice, his tone betraying the embargo they'd had on this particular topic. Dean shoots him daggers with his eyes. They had to check the blood; they couldn't say it was...yet. "Like she knows the importance of today," Dean clears his throat and moves away from Ash, attempting to ignore his babbling. "You know this isn't the same as the other symbols, right?" Approaching the stone wall closer, Ash clicks his tongue. "It looks like Hebrew."

The blood in the silver chalice on the black altar beckons to Dean, taunting him. He knows that his whole investigation depends on this blood, and Ash's ability to detect the mixture of two different types. The blood type of the victim, and the blood from a female type AB positive. If he finds the same AB positive blood, it will be official. It will be the third victim.

They are dealing with a serial killer.

Dean pushes those thoughts away as he curses Ash in his mind for planting those words into his brain at a time like this. Making his blood run that much colder and his pulse rise to a gallop and rip through his veins. It was horrific, what was happening, but, for Dean, this had turned into a game after the scripture message over the second victim, just like this one, but he would examine that in a moment. Her purpose becomes clearer in Dean's mind with every kill she makes.

All the components of the altar are delicately and precisely placed. The silver chalice with the Latin engraving sitting in the middle of a pentagram is the centre piece of the carnage. There is something about that damn cup that gives Dean the feeling that she has a set number of tableaus to create. Anxiety grips at Dean's chest when he thinks about what that means for his investigation.

If she is only going to provide a set number of crime scenes, she could disappear forever before Dean could catch her; and the thought of catching this sadistic woman was beginning to keep Dean up nights.

"What verse did we get this time?" Dean asks Ash who he feels standing behind him, as he leans down to examine the pentagram on the black cloth.

"Chapter 2 verse 6," Ash replies. "There is nothing inherently sacred about moral codes. Like the wooden idols of long ago, they are the work of human hands, and what man has made, man can destroy!" He quotes slowly from the parchment nailed to the cross.

The pentagram is made with a crimson powder that smells strongly of sulfur, and Dean scrunches his nose at the odor and Ash's words as they cement another piece of the puzzle in his mind.

He turns abruptly to examine the parchment as the officers finally get the floor lamps up and running. The bright white light that engulfs the room blinds him for minute and when the world comes back into focus, the victim's mutilated body emerges from the fog, and Dean moves his eyes to the parchment.

The undeniably feminine script is the same sharp small cursive that the previous two verses had been written in. The cloth paper was scratched under the writing, as if it had been written with a sharp blade. Ash had suggested an old-fashioned feather quill. But even with the violent, sharp strokes, Dean can tell the words had been lovingly scratched onto that parchment.

"Grab the parchment, the blood, the chalice, and some of the powder," Dean instructs Ash as he turns to walk toward Jo and away from the M.E. who huffs in annoyance. Just to chaff his ass, Dean stops to pull out his phone and snap a few more pictures of the symbols on the cross.

When he turns back to Jo, she has a bemused expression on her face, "I've got all I need right now," He tells her, "Ash and I are heading back to the station right now so he can get started on the blood," She nods, awaiting further instruction. "Be sure to get the photographers to get shots under the black light. I want those on my desk ASAP. The M.E. can take the body back to the morgue, I'll be in tomorrow to look it over myself. The forensics geeks can bag the rest for evidence and I'll have Ash process them when he finishes the blood-work." Dean and Jo are walking towards the exit to the office.

"That it?" She prompts, trying to make sure that Dean is getting everything he needs.

Ash knocks over a candle as he turns to place the evidence baggie containing the parchment into his messenger bag. "Shit," he bends down to pick up the red candle from the ground, and he stops dead in his tracks. "Dean," He calls, pulling out a scalpel from his bag. "There's something in this candle." The candles had been left burning so long that the wax had melted deep enough to expose a small white ball hidden within.

Ash can feel Dean crouching over him as he extracts the white ball which, upon closer inspection, is simply a tiny ball of rolled up paper. "Is that paper?" Dean asks as he makes the realisation in his mind. "God-dammit," Dean exclaims in frustration, pulling Ash towards the rest of the forensics team. "I want all the candles melted down."

The groaning from the interns is audible even from this distance.

* * *

The station is eerily quiet as Dean leans back in his chair to stare at the collage of photos he has up on the wall next to his desk. The midnight moon casts a few stray beams of light into the deserted station, but Dean's small desk lamp is all he has on to illuminate his small part of the room.

Scrubbing his hand slowly down his face, Dean leans forward and opens his bottom desk drawer and pulls a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers from behind the standing manila folders. He pours himself a healthy quantity and takes the amber liquid down in one go. As the liquor burns the back of his throat, he stands and walks towards the three sections of his board. Movement catches his attention out of the corner of his eye, and he sees Ash through the large window to The Lab, his head bobbing to the music playing in his head-phones.

Dean turns to walk towards the bathroom, unwilling to stare at that fucking board any longer. As he makes his way, he can see the back of the officer on duty at the front desk through the glass doors.

His reflection in the mirror is not a welcome sight The bags under his eyes are even more prominent after his long day, and he sees sleep no where in his future. Though he had shaved that morning, his jaw still bears a dark shadow of wiry hair, and there's no way all those thick lines had been between his eyes that morning.

After taking a piss, Dean splashes a handful of water on his face and pats it dry with a paper towel, puffing out his chest to exit the bathroom, determined not to let that bitch get under his skin. He has a fucking job to do.

The officer at the front desk is leaning on the counter as he chats to a uniform who just returned from patrol; Dean doesn't recognise him from the crime scene, and yet he nods in Dean's direction as he disengages from his conversation with the other man and opens the glass door to enter the desk area.

"Hey! Winchester, right?" He calls across the room. Dean raises his eyebrows. "You're Detective Winchester, right?" He reiterates when he is standing before him.

Dean nods. "Yeah, Dean Winchester. Can I help you with something?" He asks, his patience virtually non-existent.

The officer pulls an envelope out of his back pocket and hands it to Dean. "I went and checked out the crime scene on my way back after my patrol, and when I got back, this was taped to my car." Dean examines the envelope that suddenly feels like lead in his hand. "It had your name on it."

"Did you show this to anyone?" Dean asks, immediately recognising the sharp strokes making out the three words on the front of the envelope. Detective Dean Winchester. He looks up at the unknowing officer and his flaring green eyes are wild and unbridled, the other man shakes his head.

"No one. Came straight here."

Staring for a moment into the officer's eyes, Dean finally begins a slow nod. "Ok," His voice is heavy. "Thanks." Quickly walking away, the other officer says nothing in response.

It should be a sign that the lip of the envelope gives Dean a paper cut as he slides his index finger to break the seal.


	2. Chapter 2

The envelope feels like lead in Dean's hand, and the sour turning of his stomach is regurgitating acidic bile into his throat. His breathing is the only sound punctuating the dark silence of the station, and his solitude suddenly overtakes him in a wave of pure adrenaline. The pounding of his pulse in his ears increases to a gallop when he pulls the single sheet of paper out of the envelope and unfolds it to survey the beautifully handwritten letter.

_Dean,_

_I do hope it's okay that I call you Dean, but I feel that we have become rather familiar with each other over the past few months. And I am overjoyed that we finally have the chance to communicate in a more direct fashion. Particularly on the day of this momentous occasion. Today is the day you label me as a serial killer. It only seems fitting that you have become the one who is tasked with stopping me, an ambitious goal to add to your list of unending attempts at redemption. We were meant to come to this place, Dean. It had to be you._

_Your father would have also been a good detective to chase me, and, indeed, plans were in place for all of this during his time at the department. Oh, but the story was just beginning that night when he had to once again pick up the pieces of your failure when you tried to save your oaf of a brother (his departure from the force was long overdue), the night that his righteous heart beat its last rhythm. I will admit that he wasn't supposed to die, but his death set up the perfect narrative for you. And that it what this is all about: telling a story._

_How have you found my tableaus, Dean? Do you understand the victims yet? The blonde, false Madonna, the defrocked servant of your disgraced, absent God and our current one, but I won't give that away just yet. You'll have to find the skeletons in his closet on your own. I am positively giddy with excitement to watch this all pan out._

_Now, I suppose there is but one thing left to discuss. And that is the bastard that I currently have at my disposal. A certain Officer Milligan. Despite the different name, I must say that the Winchester blood seems to be strong in him. A blood that I would love to watch flow effortlessly from his veins as I nail him to his own cross. But, this is your challenge, Dean. Your distaste for the product of your father's indiscretion is plainly apparent, I am aware, but unfortunately he is the only one you have the power to save._

_The chalices I leave on the altar tell the story of my plans, if you have been able to decipher them. Out of the three tableaus which remain, Officer Milligan is the only one not set in stone, By breaking the seal I placed on this letter, you have effectively entered into my narrative. You do nothing, and Adam becomes the last of my tableaus, a sight more gruesome than you could ever imagine, with a holy carnage following on its heels that the world has never known; a destruction with the name Winchester at its center, because we have plans for you, Dean. We have plans for your Sammy too, even in his dull life of studies and work. Though his love life is certainly more interesting than the barren wasteland of yours._

_How is Lisa, Dean? Still not speaking? Well, it's probably for the best, that vacuous existence was never what you were made for. No, your heart races and your blood boils for the thrill of the hunt. So come and get me, Detective Winchester. I'm waiting._

_Yours,_  
 _Lilith_

Dean feels his nostrils flair as he throws the note onto his desk and proceeds to slam several of the files onto the ground with a frustrated growl. Her fucking teasing, self-satisfied tone had unwillingly gotten under his skin, and her mention of all those frighteningly personal details of Dean's life is making the detective's blood run cold as ice through his veins. With a roll of his eyes, he knows what he has to do, but he finds himself staring at that name at the bottom of the page. Lilith. It certainly isn't her real name, but with her, it must have a significance, but Dean is far too tired to try to dig into that tonight, so he pours himself another whiskey and finds his mind drifting to Lisa, which he invites more than the thoughts of all she'd brought up with his father and Sam.

Dean knows what he has to do, so with his tumbler of whiskey in one hand he reaches with the other for the phone on his desk, and dials the familiar number of his ranking officer, Lieutenant Ellen Harvelle. The phone rings only once and Lt. Harvelle's voice, heavy with sleep, responds testily, "Yeah?"

"L-T," Dean begins, "It's Winchester. I just got something from a uniform who was at the Crucifix crime scene tonight, and I think you need to see it." He turns over the page absentmindedly in his hands, not even worried about destroying trace evidence. A woman who can crucify three people and leave no witnesses to their abduction, torture or murder would certainly not be stupid enough to send Dean a letter covered in her fingerprints. And anyway, if they couldn't find her with a sample of her own blood, then what the fuck good would a fingerprint do?

"What is it?" Ellen asks as he hears the rustle of her removing the covers from over her, and the grumble of Bobby's sleep-thickened voice in the background.

"It's a letter to me," Dean scrubs his hand down his face and takes back the rest of his whiskey in one swig. "The bitch seems to know a lot about my life," Dean's tone is dark and acidic as it slides through the phone line.

Ellen is silent for a moment. "Well, it's almost 5am, so I'll head on over to the station in about ten minutes. We'll call FBI and get our liaison set up for our task force and then you can go home to get your four hours. I'll schedule the official briefing for later today after we've talked with the Feds." Ellen stops and surveys the silence she hears from the typically boisterous Detective who had become almost a part of her family over the years. "Must have been a helluva letter," She comments.

Dean is silent as he holds up the paper to the light on his desk, and sees the symbol acting as a watermark on the page. "Well, you'll see when you get here," Dean states, and he hangs up the phone as he stares at the symbol, fighting the urge to rip the paper to shreds.

Keep cool, Winchester. He repeats his internal monologue. Being emotional won't do jack shit. Just catch the fucking bitch.

* * *

Ellen's facial expression gives away nothing as she reads through the letter after arriving at the station. It is still just the two of them, Ash in The Lab, and the officer on duty at the front desk, so when the Lt. clears her throat and begins to refold the letter, the sound resonates through the room. "She's trying to throw you off, you realise that, right?" Ellen asks Dean in a serious, no-nonsense tone, making deliberate eye contact with the obviously exhausted detective.

"Yeah," Dean responds with a curt nod. "Do we need to put protective details on Lisa and Ben? Sam and Ruby?" The exasperation in Dean's voice is tainted with a sour anger. "She says she has plans for us," he points out.

Ellen shrugs and waves away Dean's comment, "We'll wait to see what FBI has to say. I'll give the local field office a call," She reaches for the phone on Deans desk and flips quickly. through his rolodex for the number.

"Hello, this is Lieutenant Ellen Harvelle from Lawrence PD homicide," She is silent for a moment as the voice on the other end was speaking. "Yes, this is about the Crucifix murders. We have a third body and are assembling our task force today, which I assume will include a liaison from you guys." Again a pause and Dean shifts his weight nervously from side to side. In all honesty, he is pretty damn aggravated that now he's going to have to bring some fucking Fed in on his investigation. "Yes, well, tell him that there has also been a communication from the killer. She sent a letter to our lead detective on the case. Sure, I'll fax over the details. Yes, thank you."

Replacing the phone in its cradle, Ellen rolls her eyes. "Get all your files faxed over to the field office in DC."

Dean furrows his brow with a frown. "DC?"

Ellen takes a deep breath. "Apparently FBI's had someone tracking the case for a while now," She explains in an irritated tone. "And make sure you put Attention: Special Agent Novak on all the documents. Now, I'm going to go make coffee, and after you've finished sending those files and your notes, get your ass home for some sleep. I'll see you back here at 9 AM for the briefing, and make sure you have at least an idea of who you'd like on your task force." A hint of a proud smile tugs at the lieutenant's lips.

* * *

Special Agent Castiel Novak was out on his morning run when the fax came in. Plagued by his usual insomnia, he'd risen at 4am, unable to sleep anymore, and decided to go out on the network of trails near his modest house just outside of Washington, DC.

In the darkness of the cool morning, he thinks about many things, but tries to focus on the hoots of owls and the rustling of small creatures just beyond the line of trees who scurry at the sound of his quiet footfalls. A vibration in his pocket brings him back to the reality that he is no simple jogger out on an early morning trek, and the sound of a helicopter in the distance confirms it even further.

"Novak," He answers, slightly winded from the punishing pace he had been keeping up.

"Agent," The voice of Zachariah, his supervisor, crackles through the bad reception on his phone. "There's been a third crucifixion in Kansas," he confirms Castiel's suspicions. In fact, the agent had been waiting for this call for some time now. "We're sending you out now, a chopper's waiting for you at the trail head and Uriel has all the necessary files that have been faxed over from Lawrence PD as well as all your notes from your station here. The chopper will get you to the airport and we'll have you there in time for their briefing at 9." Zachariah pauses. "Good luck, Castiel, and godspeed."

Even before he has his phone back in his pocket, Castiel streaks down the trail back the way he came, pure, white-hot adrenaline propelling him forward. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, and he can't quite tell if it's from his exertion or unadulterated anticipation. All he knows is that there's a serial killer in Lawrence, Kansas, and there's no place he'd rather be.

* * *

When Dean walks back into the station a few hours after leaving, the scene that greets his eyes is a bit more familiar. Uniformed officers are milling about a box of donuts, and detectives are hunched over their desks poring over case=files. Dean feels confident that he has a good, solid task force composed in his head, but he hopes that Ellen will go for his ideas.

When he reaches his desk, Ellen is immediately at his side with a cup of coffee. "I know I'm the LT, but you look like hell, Winchester." She shoves the steaming mug into Dean's hand and he takes a healthy gulp of the strong liquid.

"So how much gossip is going around the station about the task force?" He asks Ellen. Serial killers were certainly not common in Lawrence, the closest they'd come to that sort of thing was when BTK was terrorizing Wichita. Dean knows that all the officers are going to be scrambling to get a coveted spot on the task force.

Ellen shrugs as she notices the stares that the two of them are receiving. "Probably a lot, but not much of it's reached my ears." Her daughter Jo is sitting at a desk filling out paperwork and glancing periodically at her mother and Dean, trying, unsuccessfully, to seem uninterested at their exchange. "Drink up, boy," Ellen says as she claps Dean on the shoulder. "I'll see you in the briefing room in ten," And with that she begins to walk back to her office. "Oh, and keep an eye out for the Fed. Novak is his name," She adds over her shoulder.

Dean takes a deep breath to calm some of the annoyance he feels about this FBI liaison thing. He doesn't like the idea of some DC guy swooping onto his turf and pretending like he knows more about the murders that have consumed Dean's life for the past three months, but he knows that he has to play nice.

Sitting at his desk, Dean glances through the Crucifix case file one more time, though he could probably recite it in his sleep. He wants to make sure that he has all of the victims in order and he hopes that Ash has some more information for him.

Dean decide to set up in the briefing room a bit early, so he gathers all the pertinent files and makes his way over, feeling the eyes of the entire station on him as he does so. Once inside, he begins to pin the crime scene photos on the large cork board in the front of the room: the photos of each victim on their respective cross, the black altars, the symbols on the walls, and the Satanic verses.

The first of the officers begin slowly entering the room, and Dean is certain to pay them no attention as he focuses on what he is going to say. Suddenly, Ellen is standing behind him, surveying the photos over his shoulder. "She's one sick bitch," Is all she says.

"Okay," Ellen's voice has more authority as she directs her attention to the growing crowd of officers in the seats before them. They all fall quiet. "So, as you guys know, we got a third crucifixion last night, and while we're waiting for Ash to get back with the exact results of the blood, we're going to proceed under the assumption that we are indeed dealing with a serial killer." The atmosphere of the room changes notably when the words serial killer are mentioned. "As most of you know, serial killer means task force, which is going to be chosen and lead by Detective Winchester," Dean nods in acknowledgment. "So I'm going to turn it over to him to give y'all a briefing of where we are, with the case and then provide assignments for the task force."

Ellen steps aside and takes a seat in the first row of chairs as Dean clears his throat and sighs deeply. "We've now got three bodies," He points to the photos. "All crucified. The cause of death ht however was not the crucifixion. The ME estimates that they were nailed to their crosses three hours before their actual deaths, during which time they were tortured extensively by the killer. The first vic, Mallory Carroll was a 28 year old female and a prominent pro-life, anti-abortion activist who was often seen picketing abortion clinics all over the state," he points to the photo of her on the cross and then to the one next to it on the board.

"We discovered, upon investigating her background that she had an abortion when she was seventeen, we believe the killer targeted her for her hypocrisy, and as you can see, the majority of her torture was sexual in nature," The photo Dean is pointing as shows a crucifix that was found inside her uterus. "Her cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head; forensics found traces of her blood on the outside of the chalice found at her black altar, and we are running under the assumption that she was bludgeoned by the chalice before her blood was added."

The silence in the briefing room is palpable. The entire homicide squad is sitting on the edge of their seats as they finally hear all the details of these murders. Before this, most had only heard bits and pieces, the cliff notes, as it were. But for all of them to see the brutality face to face, it is an eye-opening experience for most.

Dean continues. "The second victim was a 57 year old male, Father James Hamilton of Our Lady of Perpetual Grace Catholic Church in Eudora, just down the road. He was reported missing by his parish only a day before we discovered his body," Dean motions towards the photo of the mangled body of the priest on his cross. "Though no formal charges were ever pursued, Hamilton had been accused of molestation numerous times throughout the years, as he was moved from parish to parish. Examination of his body also revealed extensive sexual torture, including the complete removal of his genitals. His cause of death was 66 stab wounds to the neck, chest and abdomen." Dean points to a close up photo of one of the stab wounds. "The rough nature of the stabs indicated to forensics that an older weapon was used, and analysis confirmed the presences of rust," Dean looks to Ash who is leaning against the door frame in the back. "I, along with Ash, believe that an older, relic, perhaps related to the chalices was used in his death."

Dean moves along without a hitch. "Now, the final victim, we haven't yet identified him, but he appears to be in his late thirties, initial reports indicate the cause of death was the wound to his abdomen, however the ME is performing the autopsy today and we should have an ID by dental records by the end of the day or by tomorrow." Dean steps away from the cork board and surveys the group before him. "Now, obviously this killer has a very specific MO, the crosses, black altars and symbology all indicate that these murders may have some sort of religious undertone. The verses above the crosses on the second and third victim confirm that there is a Satanic element to these murders, and I plan on assigning part of the task force to uncovering all they can about the ties of these murders to Satanism." Dean takes a deep breath. "Now, before I go any further, I've made the decision on who is going to join me in the task force."

Everyone in the room seems to freeze for a moment as they take a collective deep breath. "Ash will be heading up forensics," All Dean gets is a nod from the mulletted genius. "And Garth will be second forensic tech," the awkward, gangly character has a goofy smile on his face. "The detectives will be Martin, Clements, and Campbell. And Officer Harvelle is going to be joining us as well." Dean sees the blonde officer's jaw drop when she hears her name, and the expression on her face is absolutely priceless.

"Ok, guys," Ellen says as she stands to dismiss everyone. "Task force will stay in here with Winchester and the rest of you have work to do-" But Ellen's speech is interrupted by a loud clearing of someone's throat.

"I think you're forgetting someone," A deep voice says from the back of the room. All eyes immediately hone in on the strange man in a tan trench coat. Dean's eyes narrow as he surveys the man and his dark suit underneath. "Special Agent Castiel Novak," The man continues, walking forward into the room as all the eyes follow him. "I'm your FBI liaison for this task force."

Once standing in front of Dean, he extends his hand in the direction of the detective. "Detective Winchester, I presume?" He asks, the intensity of his ice blue eyes taking Dean slightly aback.

As they shake hands, they don't once break eye contact. "Welcome to Lawrence," Dean says in a tone that is decidedly less welcoming than his words indicate.


End file.
